HYING  STAG-  WAYS        N  O.S. 


A12SNS         NtW 


N  I  G  H  T  v  v  A  Poetic 

Drama  in  One  Act  by  James 
Oppenheim  as  played  by  the 
Provincetown  Players. 


Published  by  EGMONT  ARENS  at  the 

Washington  Square  Bookshop  V  New  York 
1918 


NIGHT  was  first  produced  by  the  Provincetown 
Players  on  November  2nd,  1917,  with  the  follow 
ing  cast : 

THE  SCIENTIST  -  -    Justus  Sheffield 

THE  POET      -  George  Cram  Cook 

THE  PRIEST  -  -    Hutchinson  Collins 

THE  MAN  -    Rollo  Peters 

THE  WOMAN        -  -        -        -        -    Ida  Rauh 


The  scene  and  method  of  playing,  suggested  by 
Rollo  Peters.  The  actors  appear  in  silhouette 
before  a  lighted  blue  screen  upon  a  simple 
mound  that  suggests  a  hill-top. 


NIGHT 

A  Priest,  A  Poet,  A  Scientist. 
Hilltop,  in  October;  the  stars  shining. 

[The  Priest  kneels;  the  Scientist  looks  at  the  /^f  A I  /J 
heavens   through   a   telescope;    the   Poet 
writes  in  a  little  note-book.] 

THE   PRIEST 
When  I  consider  Thy  heavens,  the  work  of 

Thy    fingers,    the    moon    and    the    stars, 

which  Thou  hast  ordained; 
What  is  man,  that  Thou  art  mindful  of  him, 
And  the  son  of  man,  that  Thou  visitest  him? 

THE   SCIENTIST 

Algol  which  is  dim,  becomes  again  a  star  of 
the  second  magnitude. 

THE   POET 
My  beloved  is  far  from  this  hilltop,  where  the 

firs  breathe  heavily,  and  the  needles  fall; 
But  from  the  middle  of  the  sea 
She,  too,  gazes  on  the  lustrous  stars  of  calm 

October,  and  in  her  heart 
She  stands  with  me  beneath  these  heavens — 

daintily  blows 
Breath   of  the  sighing   pines,   and   from   the 

loaded    and    bowed-down    orchards    and 

from  the  fields 
With  smokes  of  the  valley,  peace  steps  up  on 

this  hill. 

THE   PRIEST 
Thou  art  the  Shepherd  that  strides  down  the 

Milky  Way; 
Thou  art  the  Lord,  our  God:  glorified  be  Thy 

name  and  Thy  works. 

I  see  Thee  with  Thy  staff  driving  the  star- 
sheep  to  the  fold  of  dawn. 


NIGHT 


'THE   SCIENTIST 

The  Spiral  Nebula  in  Ursa  Major,  that  forever 
turns 

Slowly  like  a  flaming  pin-wheel.  .  .thus  are 
worlds  born; 

Thus  was  the  sun  and  all  the  planets  a  hand 
ful  of  million  years  ago. 

THE  POET 

She  is  far  from  me.  .  .but  in  the  cradle  of  the 

sea 
Sleepless  she  rocks,  calling  her  beloved:   he 

heeds  her  call: 
On  this  hilltop  he  picks  the  North  Star  for  his 

beacon . .  . 
For  by  that  star  the  sailors  steer,  and  beneath 

that  star 
She  and  I  are  one  in  the  gaze  of  the  heavens. 

THE  PRIEST 

[Slowly  rising  and  turning  to  the  others.] 
Let  us  glorify  the  Creator  of  this  magnificence 

of  infinite  Night, 
His  footstool  is  the  Earth,  and  we  are  but  the 

sheep  of  this  Shepherd. 

THE   SCIENTIST 

Thus  shall  we  only  glorify  ourselves, 
That  of  this  energy  that  rolls  and  drives  in 

suns  and  planets 
Are    but    the    split-off    forces    with    cunning 

brains, 
And  questioning  consciousness.  .  .Pray  if  you 

must — 
Only  your  own  ears  hear  you,  and  only  the 

heart  in  your  breast 
Responds    to    the    grandiose    emotion ...  See 

yonder  star? 
That    is    the    great   Aldebaron,    great    in    the 

night, 


. 


JAMES    OPPENHEIM  7 

Needing  a  whole  sky,  as  a  vat  and  a  reservoir, 

which  he  fills  with  his  flame .  .  . 
But  no  astronomer  with  his  eye  to  his  lenses 
Has  seen  ears  on  the  monster. 

THE  PRIEST 
Thou  that  hast  never  seen  an  atom,  nor  the 

ether  thou  pratest  of, 
Thou  that  hast  never  seen  the  consciousness 

of  man, 
What    knowest    thou    of    the    invisible    arms 

about  this  sky, 
And  the  Father  that  leans  above  us? 

THE   POET 

We  need  know  nothing  of  any  Father 
When   the   grasses   themselves,   withering   in 
October,   stand   up   and   sing   their   own 
dirges  in  the  great  west  wind, 
And  every  pine  is  like  a  winter  lodging  house 
where   the    needles    may   remember   the 
greenness  of  the  world, 
And   the  great  shadow  is  jagged  at  its  top 

with  stars, 

And  the  heart  of  man  is  as  a  wanderer  look 
ing  for  the  light  in  a  window, 
And  the  kiss  and  warm  joy  of  his  beloved. 

THE  PRIEST 

Man  of  Song  and  Man  of  Science, 
Truly  you  are  as  people  on  the  outside  of  a 

house, 
And  one  of  you  only  sees  that  it  is  made  of 

stone,  and  its  windows  of  glass,  and  that 

fire  burns  in  the  hearth, 
And  the  other  of  you  sees  that  the  house  is 

beautiful  and  very  human, 
But  I  have  gone  inside  the  house, 
And  I  live  with  the  host  in  that  house 
And  have  broken  bread  with  him,  and  drunk 

his  wine, 


8  NIGHT 

And  seen  the  transfiguration  that  love  and 
awe  make  in  the  brain.  .  . 

For  that  house  is  the  world,  and  the  Lord  is 
my  host  and  my  father: 

It  is  my  father's  house. 

THE   SCIENTIST 

He  that  has  gone  mad  and  insane  may  call 
himself  a  king, 

And  behold  himself  in  a  king's  palace,  with 
feasting,  and  dancing  women,  and  with 
captains, 

And  none  can  convince  him  that  he  is  mad, 

Slave  of  hallucination.  .  . 

We  that  weigh  the  atom  and  weigh  a  world  in 
the  night,  and  we 

Who  probe  down  into  the  brain,  and  see  how 
desire  discolors  reality, 

And  we  that  see  how  chemical  energy  changes 
and  transforms  the  molecule, 

So  that  one  thing  and  another  changes  and  so 
man  arises— 

With  neither  microscope,  nor  telescope,  nor 
spectroscope,  nor  finest  violet  ray 

Have  we  found  any  Father  lurking  in  the  in 
tricate  unreasonable  drive  of  things 

And  the  strange  chances  of  nature. 
THE  POET 

O  Priest,  is  it  not  enough  that  the  world  and 
a  Woman  are  very  beautiful, 

And  that  the  works  and  tragic  lives  of  men 
are  terribly  glorious? 

There  is  a  dance  of  miracles,  of  miracles  hold 
ing  hands  in  a  chain  around  the  Earth 
and  out  through  space  to  the  moon,  and 
to  the  stars,  and  beyond  the  stars, 

And  to  behold  this  dance  is  enough; 
So   much   laughter,   and  secret   looking,   and 
glimpses  of  wonder,  and  dreams  of  ter 
ror.  .  . 
It  is  enough!  it  is  enough! 


JAMES    OPPENHBIM 


THE    PRIEST 

Enough?     I  see  what  is  enough! 

Machinery  is  enough  for  a  Scientist, 

And  Beauty  is  enough  for  a  Poet; 

But  in  the  hearts  of  men  and  women,  and  in 
the  thirsty  hearts  of  little  children 

There  is  a  hunger,  and  there  is  an  unappeas 
able  longing, 

For  a  Father  and  for  the  love  of  a  Father.  .  . 

For  the  root  of  a  soul  is  mystery, 

And  the  Night  is  mystery, 

And  in  that  mystery  men  would  open  inward 
into  Eternity, 

And  know  love,  the  Lord. 

Blessed  be  his  works,  and  his  angels,  and  his 
sons  crowned  with  his  glory! 
[A  pause.    The  Woman  with  a  burden  in  her 
arms  comes  in  slowly.] 

THE  WOMAN 
Who  has  the  secret  of  life  among  you? 

THE   PRIEST 
I,  woman,  have  that  secret: 
I  have  learned  it  from  the  book  of  the  revela 
tions  of  God, 

And  I  have  learned  it  from  life,  bitterly, 
And  from  my  heart,  holily. 

THE   SCIENTIST 
Be  not  deceived,  woman:  " 
There  is  only  one  book  of  reality — the  book 
of  Nature. 

THE  WOMAN 
Who  has  read  in  that  book? 

THE   SCIENTIST 
I  have  read  a  little: 
No  man  has  read  much. 


10  NIGHT 

THE    POET 

They  lead  you  nowhere,  woman; 
You  are  the  secret  of  life,  and  your  glory  is  in 

seeking  the  secret, 
But  finding  it  never. 

THE  WOMAN 
I    have    climbed    this    hill    and    found    three 

watchers  of  the  night — 
Three  star-gazers    perched  above  the  placid 

October  harvests 
Where  they  lie  golden  and  crimson  along  the 

valley,  and  high  on  the  slopes 
The  scarlet  maples  flame — 
You  are  a  priest:  and  you  speak  of  God. 
I  am  nothing  but  need:  for  I  carry  a  burden 

that  is  heavier  than  the  Earth,  and   is 

heavier 

Than  the  flesh  of  woman  can  bear:  I  break 
Down  under  it:  and  a  hard  hate 
Against  my  birth  is  steel  in  my  heart — I  curse 
God,  if  there  be  a  God — 
Love,  if  there  ever  was  love — 
Life,  that  is  empty  ravings, 
And  the  hour  when  I  was  born. 

THE  PRIEST 
Peace!  Peace!  Thou    standest  in  the  presence 

of  the  Night 
Shadowy    with    grace    and    benediction — the 

mercy 
Of  the  Lord  falls  like  the  dew  on  the  soft 

brow  of  thy  affliction! 

THE   POET 
[Softly.] 
She  is  very  beautiful  and  dark  with  her  stern 

cursing, 

Standing   there   like   an   enemy   of   great  Je 
hovah, 


JAMES    OPPENHEIM  11 

A  demon-woman  satanic — she  is  very  beau 
tiful, 

With  her  arms  full  of  her  burden,  and  the 
stars 

Seeming  to  retreat  before  her. 

THE   SCIENTIST 
What  burden  is  that  you  carry? 

THE  WOMAN 
That  which  is  worth  nothing, 
And  worth  more  than  these  stars  you  gaze  at. 

THE  PRIEST 

Put  thy  burden  upon  the  Lord,  and  thy  truSt 
in  His  loving  kindness. 

THE  WOMAN 
I  will  not  part  with  my  burden,  though  it  is 

worth  nothing.  .  . 
For   what   are   a   few   pounds   of   dead   flesh 

worth  when  the  life  has  left  it? 

THE  PRIEST 
Then  you  carry  the  dead  at  your  breast? 

THE  WOMAN 
I  carry  the  dead.  .  . 

THE  PRIEST 
Flesh  of  your  flesh  and  bone  of  your  bone.  .  . 

THE  WOMAN 

My  breasts  are  still  heavy  with  unsucked 
milk .  .  . 

THE  PRIEST 
Your  child  has  died.  .  . 

THE  WOMAN 
My  baby  is  dead.  .  . 


12  NIGHT 

THE    PRIEST 

The  Lord  giveth,  the  Lord  taketh  away; 
Blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord. 

THE  WOMAN 
Nine  long  months 
I  ripened  with  the  human  seed,  and  like  a 

goodly  tree  that  is  green 
Stooped    with    sheltering    boughs    above    the 

swelling  fruit.  .  . 

Song  rang  sweetly  in  my  blood .  .  . 
I   tasted   the  silent  life   as   a  spring   hillside 

where  the  furrows  are  run 
So  holds  its  bated  breath  against  the  pressing 

of  the  grass-blades 
That  birds  coming  that  way  catch  the  held- 

down  glory  under  the  furrows 
And  scatter  ecstatic  golden  notes  in  the  morn 
ing  light.  .  . 
Until  the  trumpets  blasted,  as  if  the  opening 

heavens  of  a  sunrise 
Were  battalions  of  bright  trumpeters  blowing 

news  of  dawn .  .  . 
Sank  I  then  into  darkness, 
Sank  I  then  into  terror, 
Till  I  was  healed  of  pain  by  the  new-born,  my 

child.  .  . 

And  now,  behold  in  my  arms 
The  life  of  my  life: 
All  that  I  was  went  out  in  him:  my  life  was 

now  outside  me. 

THE   PRIEST 
Unto  thee  a  son  was  born! 

THE  WOMAN 
I  ran  to  tend  him  with  glad  feet,  and  with 

laughter.  .  . 

For  my  life  was  now  outside  of  me, 
And  I  was  seeking  my  life. 


JAMES    OPPENHBIM  13 

THE   PRIEST 
You  praised  the  Lord? 

THE  WOMAN 
I  loved  my  child .  .  . 

THE  PRIEST 
And  God  forgotten? 

THE  WOMAN 
That  child  was  holy.  .  . 

THE  PRIEST 
He  was  but  flesh .  .  . 

THE  WOMAN 
Just  so  was  Christ.  .  . 

THE  PRIEST 
A  Son  of  God.  .  . 

THE  WOMAN 
My  child  was  such.  .  . 

THE  PRIEST 

So  in  the  corrupt  new  generations  of  men 
They  forget  God,  and  love  but  the  flesh, 
And  the  corruptible  flesh  decays  after  its  kind 
And  in  their  bereavement  they  have  nothing 

.  .  .  then  in  their  sorrow 
They  curse  the  true  and  the  good. 

THE  WOMAN 

The  flesh,  you  say?     Here  is  the  flesh: 
But    was    it    the    flesh    when    his    blue    eyes 

opened  and  gazed  with  great  hunger, 
Was  it  the  flesh  that  wailed,  the  flesh  that 
warmed  against  my  naked  breasts,   the 
flesh 
That  went  a  secret  way,  and  I  after,  I  after, 

seeking  through  embraces 
To  catch  my  son  back,  hold  him :  .  .  .  but,  oh, 

he  was  gone, 

He  was  gone,  leaving  this.     Priest,  is  this  all 
you  have  for  the  bereaved? 


H  NIGHT 

THE    PRIEST 
That  which  is  gone  is  now  with  God. 

THE   WOMAN 
/  was  his  God,  for  to  me  the  beautiful  bright 

life  raised  its  hands, 
Suppliant,  full  of  faith.  .  . 
He  wailed  for  enfolding  love:  I  gave  it 
For  daily  bread:  I  gave  it 
For  healing  and  shelter:  I  gave  it. 
Out  of  me  he  came,  but  away  from  me  he  has 

gone, 
And  if  he  has  found  out  some  other  mother, 

I  curse  her  in  my  jealousy! 

THE  PRIEST 

So  you  blaspheme  the  holiness  of  the  Omnipo 
tent! 

THE  WOMAN 

So  I  curse  the  thief  who  stole  my  treasure 
away. 

THE   PRIEST 

Alas!  Who  may  speak  to  a  sacrilegious  gen 
eration? 

THE   WOMAN 

Speak  if  you  can,  and  tell  me  in  a  few  words 
What  is  the  secret  of  life? 

THE  PRIEST 

Life  is  a  mysterious  preparation  for  immor 
tality.  .  . 

We  are  sons  and  daughters  of  God,  who  shall 
later  be  angels,  and  in  heaven 

Know  bliss  beyond  all  dream. 

THE  WOMAN 

[Uncovering  her  child's  face.] 
My  son.  .  . 
You  and  I  lately  pulsed  with  one  pulse,  and 

sang  together  one  song: 


JAMBS    OPPENHEIM  15 

For  you  the  flaming  pain,  for  you  the  terror 

of  birth.  .  . 
And   this   priest's   God   let  you   suffer,    in   a 

glorious  preparation, 
And  let  you  die .  .  . 

[Kisses  him.] 
Cold!    Cold!      My    heart   tightens    hard,    my 

blood  is  chilled.  .  . 
[In  a  loud  cry.] 
Hellish  heaven!     Devilish  God! 

[Silence.    The  Poet  advances  and  covers  the 
face.] 

THE   POET 
You   are  very  wonderful  and  very  noble  in 

your  satanic  anger, 
Your  curses  are  cleansing,  for  it  is  a  mighty 

thing  for  man  to  confront  creation 
Greater  even  than  this  vast  Night,  to  stand  in 

his  transiency 
And  his  pitiful  helplessness,  and  in  the  grasp 

of  his  doom,  and  against  death, 
Darkness,    and   mysterious   powers,    alone   of 

all  life 
Godlike,  downing  the  universe  with  defiance! 

O  godlike 
Are  you;  and  you  are  God! 

THE  WOMAN 

[Gazing  at  him.] 
Who  are  you,  with  these  words? 

THE  POET 
Seer  and  singer,  one  who  glories  in  life,  and 

through  vision 
Creates  his  own  worlds. 

THE  WOMAN 
Has  your  mother  ever  wept  for  you? 

THE  POET 
All  mothers  weep.  .  . 


16  NIGHT 

THE  WOMAN 
Have  you  ever  had  a  child? 

THE  POET 

No  child  of  my  own:  but  I  know  the  love  of 
children. 

THE  WOMAN 
Can  I  trust  you  with  a  great  trust? 

THE  POET 
I  think  of  you  as  a  holy  thing. 

THE  WOMAN 
Then — take  this  a  moment, 
And  feel  how  light  a  heavy  burden  may  be. 
[She  carefully  places  the  child  in  his  arms.] 

THE  POET 
How  strangely  light! 

THE  WOMAN 
You  tremble.     Why? 

THE   POET 
There  is  something  so  real  in  the  stiff  posture 

of  these  tiny  legs, 

These  crooked  arms,  this  little  body, 
This  hanging  head.  .  . 

THE  WOMAN 
Can  you  see  him? 

THE  POET 

[Looking  close.] 
O  tiniest  budding  mouth, 
O  dark  deep  fringes  of  eyelids, 
O  pallid  cheeks.  .  . 

THE  WOMAN 

And  the  little  tuft  of  hair — you  see  it? 


JAMES    OPPENHEIM  17 

THE   POET 
Take  him!     My  heart  is  in  despair! 

THE  WOMAN 
No  one  will  have  my  burden;  for  my  burden 

is  heavier 
Than  any  save  a  mother  can  bear.  .  .O  Earth, 

hard  Earth, 
I  shall  not  go  mad:  I  hold  back:  I  shut  the 

doors  on  the  Furies: 

I  stand  straight  and  stiff!     I  hold  against  my 
heart  with  words! 
[Silence.] 
So,  poet,  you  are  hushed!     Life  is  too  much 

for  you! 
Go — live  in  your  dreams  and  let  the  reality  of 

experience 

Flow  over  you,  untasted.  .  .You  are  wise:  it  is 
better! 
[Silence.] 
What?     All  silent?     My  star-gazers  brought 

to  a  pause? 
You,  too? 

THE   SCIENTIST 
[Grimly.] 

Who  would  listen  to  me  must  be  hard  and 
strong. 

THE  WOMAN 
Am  I  soft  and  weak? 

THE   SCIENTIST 

You  have  the  strength  of  revolt,  but  not  the 
greater  strength  of  acceptance. 

THE  WOMAN 
What  shall  I  accept? 

THE   SCIENTIST 
The  inexorable  facts  of  life. 


18  NIGHT 

THE   WOMAN 
And  what  are  those  facts? 

THE   SCIENTIST 
That  man  is  no  more  than  the  grasses,  and 

that  man  is  no  more, 
Though  his  dreams  are  grandiose,  than  the 

pine  on  this  hill,  or  the  bright  star 
Burning     blue     out     yonder — strangely     the 

chemicals  mix,  and  the  forces  interplay, 
And  out  of  it  consciousness  rises,  an  energy 

harnessed  by  energies, 
And  a  little  while  it  burns,  then  nickers,  then 

vanishes  out, 
And  is  no  more  than  the  October  wind  and 

the  smell  of  dried  hay. 

THE  WOMAN 
These  are  the  facts? 

THE   SCIENTIST 
These  are  the  facts. 

THE  WOMAN 

And  my  child  was  nothing  but  energy,  gath 
ered  and  scattered? 

THE   SCIENTIST 
These  are  the  facts.  .  . 

THE   WOMAN 

He  was  only  a  cunning  engine  and  a  curious 
machine? 

THE   SCIENTIST 
Thus  are  we  all.  .  . 

THE  WOMAN 

Not  all ...  thus  are  you .  •  . 
But  this  child  was  mine,  he  was  my  baby  and 
he  was  my  son. 


JAMES    OPPENHBIM  19 

And  I  was  his  life-giver,  and  his  lover,  and  his 
mother.  .  . 

And  I  knew  the  glory  of  this  child,  for  I  lived 
with  it, 

And  I  know  the  marvel  and  mystery  of  moth 
erhood,  for  I  lived  it.  .  . 

I  lived  it,  who  now  live  the  death  of  a  treas 
ured  being, 

And  who  know  now  that  the  light  of  the  world 
is  out,  and  only  death 

May  heal  me  of  anguish,  and  only  death's  long 
sleep 

Sliall  bury  my  bereavement  in  peace.  .  .O 
mouthers  of  words, 

Dreamers  who  do  not  live,  I  go  back  to  the 
valley, 

And  there  I  shall  put  this  babe  in  the  Earth 
where  the  seeds  of  Autumn  are  sinking, 

And  there  I  shall  slay  myself,  knowing  that 
no  one  knows, 

And  no  one  helps,  and  life  is  a  madness  and  a 
horror, 

And  to  be  dead  is  better  than  to  suffer. 

[They  say  nothing.  The  Priest  silently  prays. 
The  Woman  turns,  and  starts  slowly  out. 
But  as  she  goes  a  Man  enters,  search- 
in  gly.] 

THE   MAN 
Beloved!     O  where  have  you  fled  from  me? 

THE  WOMAN 
Go  back — I  hate  you  for  bringing  this  being 

into  life, 
Whose  loss  has  ruined  life,  life  itself:  and  I 

had  better  never  loved  you, 
For  love  brings  children  to  the  mother. 

THE  MAN 
It  is  my  child,  too.  .  .1  too  have  lost  him. 


20  NIGHT 

THE   WOMAN 
You  have  lost  a  plaything  and  the  promise  of 

a  man, 

And  you  have  lost  a  trouble  and  a  burden: 
But  I  have  lost  my  love,  and  I  have  lost  the 

life  of  my  life. 

THE  MAN 

You    are   cruel   in    your   sorrow     beyond    all 
women.  .  . 

THE  WOMAN 

Then  leave  me,  and  seek  comfort  elsewhere. 
There  are  many  women. 

THE  MAN 
You  are  desperate,  and  there  is  a  hardness  in 

you  that  makes  me  afraid. 
Where  are  you  going? 

THE  WOMAN 
I  follow  this  child. 

THE  MAN 
Then  I  lose  my  child.  .  .even  as  you  lost  yours. 

THE  WOMAN 
Your  child?     Ha!     I  am  gone! 

[Tries  to  pass  him;  he  seizes  her.] 

THE   MAN 

You  shall  not  go,  for  you  are  mine.     O  be 
loved,  hear  me! 

THE  WOMAN 
Take  away  your  hands,  for  every  moment  that 

you  make  me  stay 
Deepens  my  hate  of  you. 

THE  MAN 
You  would  break  my  life  in  bits? 


JAMBS    OPPENHEIM  '-'I 

THE  WOMAN 

Your  life  is  not  so  easily  broken .  .  . 
You  are  a  man.  .  .Come!   I  shall  do  some  ter 
rible  thing — 

THE  MAN 
Then  I  too  shall  follow.  .  . 

THE  WOMAN 
Follow?    Where? 

THE  MAN 
Wherever  you  go. 

THE  WOMAN 
Down  into  death? 

THE  MAN 
Even  into  death. 

[A  pause;  she  draws  back  a  little.] 

THE  WOMAN 
Are   you   crying?      Are   there   tears   on   your 

cheeks? 
Why  do  you  heave  so? 

THE  MAN 
Your  love  has  died.  .  . 

THE  WOMAN 
Are  you  so  weak? 

THE  MAN 
But  I  need  you  so.  .  . 

THE  WOMAN 

[In  a  changed  voice.] 
You  need  me! 

THE  MAN 
Look!      I  do   not  need  you,  who  am  alone, 

uncomforted, 

With  no  place  on  Earth,  no  life,  no  light,  H 
you  are  gone.  .  . 


NIGHT 

THE  WOMAN 

You  need  me? 

THE  MAN 
I  need  you. . . 

[Silence.] 

THE  WOMAN 
This  man  is  my  child.  .  . 
[Silence.] 

THE   MAN 

[Drawing  her  tenderly  close.] 
Our  dead  child  between  us, 
O  my  beloved,  is  there  not  a  future? 
May  no  more  children  issue  from  us,  no  more 

children 
Lovely,    golden,    waking   with   laughter,    and 

clothed  as  with  dawn 
With  the  memory  of  the  dead?      Come,   my 

beloved, 
Down  to  the  Valley,  down  to  the  living,  down 

to  the  toilers. 
Come,  my  beloved!     I  am  your  child  and  your 

father, 
Your  husband  and  your  lover!     Come,  let  us 

go! 

THE  WOMAN 

[Weeping.] 

0  my  heart! 

Something  has  broken  in  me,  and  the  flood 
flows  through  my  being! 

1  come!     I  come! 

[They  go  out  together,  the  Man  with  his  arm 
around  the  Woman.] 

THE   PRIEST 
Forgive  these  children,  Lord  God! 


JAMES   OPPENHEIM 

THE  SCIENTIST 
Ignorance  is  indeed  bliss! 

THE  POET 


CURTAIN 


&e  FLYING  STAG  PLAYS 
FOR  THE  LITTLE  THEATRE 

TO    BE     PUBLISHED    MONTHLY 

Thirty  Five  Cents  Each        Three  Dollars  a  Year 

The  Best  One  Act  Plays  Produced 
by  the  Washington  Square  Players,  the 
Provincetown  Players,  The  Greenwich 
Village  Players,  and  others,  will  be  in 
cluded  in  this  series.  A  A  A  A  A  A 

THE  CHESTER  MYSTERIES,  a  Passion  Play, 
as  played  on  Christmas  eve  by  the  Greenwich  Village 
Players. 

No.  1.  THE  SANDBAR  QUEEN,  by  George 
Cronyn,  as  played  by  the  Washington  Square 
Players. 

No.  2.  NIGHT,  by  James  Oppenheim,  as 
played  by  the  Provincetown  Players. 

No.  3.  THE  ANGEL  INTRUDES,  by  Floyd 
Dell,  (Provincetown  Players). 

Others  to  follow  at  intervals  of  one  month. 
SUBSCRIBE  NOW 

Published   by    EGMONT    ARENS,   at    the 

Washington    Square  Book    Shop.    New    York 

17    West    8th    Street 


THE    FLYING   STAG    PLAYS 

For     The     Little     Theatre 

No.  2 


NIGHT 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY 

EGMONT   ARENS. 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED. 


The  professional  and  amateur  stage  rights  on 
this  play  are  strictly  reserved  by  the  author.  Ap 
plications  for  permission  to  produce  the  play 
should  be  made  to  the  Provincetown  Players,  139 
MacDougal  Street,  New  York. 

While  it  is  hoped  that  the  publication  of  the 
plays  in  this  series  will  encourage  their  produc 
tion  in  all  parts  of  the  country,  it  is  held  that  the 
interests  of  the  New  Theater  movement  can  best 
be  served  by  vigorous  protection  of  the  play 
wrights,  without  whom  the  movement  cannot  go 
forward. 

Therefore  any  infringement  of  the  author's 
rights  will  be  punished  by  the  penalties  imposed 
under  the  United  States  Revised  Statutes,  Title 
60,  Chapter  3. 

THE  PUBLISHER. 


STAMPED  BELOW 


AN     INITIAL     FINE     OF     25     CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  5O  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


APR   10  1933 


14  DAI    usr, 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


